


was it He that bore, and Yesterday, or Centuries before?

by tigriswolf



Series: time traveling Sam [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Dogs, Canon-Typical Violence, Codependency, Codependent Winchesters (Supernatural), Gen, Minor Character Death, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Michael, Protective Sam Winchester, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Torture, gender pronouns are still confusing for angels, overprotective older siblings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-06 06:02:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15188372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigriswolf/pseuds/tigriswolf
Summary: follows “the crucifix was constructed wrong” and will make ZERO sense without reading it.Aftermath of time travel -- what's happening in Hell and Heaven with no apocalypse?  The greatest archangels are walking the Earth, Sam and Dean are just trying to live, and there's things in Purgatory that want out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title: was it He that bore, and Yesterday, or Centuries before?  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Emily Dickinson  
> Warnings: AU during seasons 3 & 5; the consequences of time travel; probable violence/death in future; almost definite torture because Alistair; unhealthy codependency between two sets of siblings  
> Pairings: references to canon couples  
> Rating: PGish? PG13?  
> Wordcount: WIP
> 
> Note: follows “the crucifix was constructed wrong” and will make ZERO sense without reading it. WIP but I’ll be tagging everything I know is coming. I know what the overall plot will be, though I’ve yet to determine how to get there. 
> 
> Another note: I have a [tag](http://tigriswolf.tumblr.com/tagged/time-traveling-sam) for this ‘verse on my tumblr, though there are spoilers contained therein

In their home office, the elder two of the Moirai sisters listen to Atropos rant about arrogant humans who think themselves high enough to reWeave the Strands. It is not the first time she has ranted about this, but Klotho certainly hopes it will be the last. 

“Little sister,” she finally cuts in gently, when Atropos pauses to breathe. Lachesis takes Atropos by the hand and tugs her down onto the plushy chair she’s curled in as Klotho rises to her feet. Even as Atropos glares up at her, she takes the Hershey kiss Lachesis offers, petulantly unwraps it, and shoves it into her mouth. Klotho very determinedly does not smile at how cute her youngest sister is. Lachesis, her face safely out of Atropos’ sight, smiles in her stead. 

Klotho has often wondered how much easier it must be, to be the middle child. Fewer responsibilities, fewer worries. She never wonders long, for there is always much to do. 

“I have located the Commander of Heaven,” Klotho tells her sisters. “I shall be having a chat with them soon.” 

Atropos’ eyes widen. “Alone?” she demands, and when she tries surging to her feet, Lachesis’ arms wrap around her middle. 

Raising an eyebrow, Klotho gazes down at her serenely. “Can you hold your tongue, dearest?” she asks. “Try not to pick a fight with the Star of Morning and Commander of Heaven?” 

Paling, Atropos falls back against Lachesis, who says, “I presume you have a plan, sister.” 

Klotho grins at them. “Of course I do.” 

.

It has been a very long time since Klotho or Michael sought audiences with each other. After the Three-Fold Creator vanished, Klotho traveled to Heaven to discuss with the new leaders what the Strands foretold, and they listened to her, the Commander and the Healer. They listened respectfully and then the Commander dared to issue a command to the eldest of the Moirai, to the Weaver of the Strands. The eldest archangel gazed at her with all their eyes, and Klotho gazed back, severely unimpressed. 

“I Weave the Strands of all, Michael,” she said serenely. “Are you not one of all?” 

And so she left Heaven by a way unknown to every angel, a way known to Reapers and agents of Death, and she waved at her father as she passed his ‘prison.’ Death’s laughter followed her. 

Once home, she informed her sisters to be wary of angels, and if one ever spoke to them, they were to call for her immediately. It was good for all that Michael gave the same order to the angels, because the Weaver is the greatest of the Moirai, for though Lachesis measures the Strands and Atropos cuts the Strands, they only do so upon Klotho’s word. Should Michael have tried to make war upon Death’s first children, the archangel’s Strand would be severed immediately. 

.

“This is perhaps a better way,” Death tells Klotho as he pops into her office. She doesn’t acknowledge him until she’s done with her count, whereupon she drops the pen, closes her notebook, and stares at him over the edge of her glasses. Death holds out a sky-blue porcelain plate with peanut butter cookies; Klotho sighs. She really is too much like her father. 

She picks the plumpest cookie from the plate. “Welcome, Death,” she says, setting the cookie beside her notebook. The plate vanishes and Death’s cane takes its place. “Please, have a seat.” As he chooses among the four chairs she keeps for visitors, Klotho delicately removes the Hershey kiss from atop the cookie and sets it aside for later.

“You have examined the Strands, of course,” Death comments, materializing a cup of tea. He offers Klotho her own but she instead materializes a mug of milk. The comment requires no response, so Klotho maintains her silence by nibbling on the cookie. After a moment, Death continues, “I know Atropos’ anger is great, and Lachesis’ confusion worries her. But you, eldest of my children, you are unmoved.” He sips his tea. “Have you no questions before you accost the angels?” 

Klotho scoffs. “I have many questions, and worries, and doubts. But, as you said,” she retorts, almost viciously, “I see the Strands. I Weave them.” She meets his calm, ancient eyes. “This is a better way, Father.” 

Death regally nods his head. “Of all my siblings’ creations,” he notes, “only one has ever made such a mess of things as the Winchester brothers.” 

She shudders. “Why were they allowed to live?” she asks, glad that the ravenous Leviathan was locked away long before her own existence. 

Her father shrugs elegantly. “It matters not so long as they remain locked away and no haughty little angels seek them, yes?” 

_That_ is a particular Strand that Klotho is very glad she will not Weave. 

“Will you still accost the angels?” Death asks. 

Klotho shrugs now, busying her hands with slowly turning the mug in place. “Atropos wants to, and I won’t let them go alone, no matter how reasonable Michael seems to be at the moment.” And she won’t let either of her sisters on the same _plane of existence_ as the no-longer-calling-themself-Lucifer without her there. 

Death sets his tea on the small table that wasn’t there a moment before, alongside the plate of cookies. Klotho summons another; Death picks one himself and they sit in silence for a few moments. No matter how frustrating her father can be, he still carries with him an air of serenity that soothes her. 

But finally, second cookie gone, and both Hershey kisses, and her third mugful of milk, Klotho gazes steadily at her father. “You did not come to discuss the angels walking the Earth.” 

“I did not,” Death admits. He rests both hands on the cane, ring flashing. “The Strands, daughter. What you will not Weave concerns me.” 

Her breath catches, and slowly Klotho breathes out. “You haven’t taken an interest in a long time, Father.” 

“I have not.” His ring flashes again and the pendant hanging from Klotho’s neck flashes in response. “There is little I cannot do,” Death tells her, “and much that I will not. But perhaps, some locks should be…” His lips twist, though not in a smile. “Not broken, just weakened.” 

It is a horrifying proposition, and one Klotho knows she will never mention to anyone, even her sisters. “Weave the Strands,” Death commands, rising to his feet. 

He’s gone before Klotho can think of any reply. She removes her glasses, rubs at her eyes. Takes a quick walk at the bottom of the Marianas Trench to calm herself. Returns to her office, puts her glasses on, picks up her pen, opens her notebook, gets some work done. 

_Weaken the lock,_ she thinks. The lock only five beings even know exists. The lock sealed by the willpower of a demon and a Fallen, the only shield between—

She is the eldest of the Moirai. There are Strands to Weave, which she will do only after speaking with the eldest of the angels, and with the human who dared reWeave the world.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still no Winchesters, but we're getting there! 
> 
> Also, I've decided how to keep Castiel looking like Jimmy Novak. But I've also decided to give Samandriel a storyline; should he still look like Alfie? 
> 
> ALSO ALSO: remember, Samael has character development that canon's Lucifer never received.

_How fares Heaven?_ Samael asks while Millie and Deanna splash through the surf on the unspoiled beach of a tiny speck of island in the mortal-named Pacific Ocean. Samael watches contentedly through her vessel’s eyes, cocooned not only in Deanna’s bright soul but in willingly-gifted tendrils of Michael, Raphael, and Gabriel’s graces. 

In these quiet mortal days since Samael rose from the Cage, the two oldest angels have wandered as mortals, with no duties, no battles, no war between siblings, between parent and child—Samael has experienced no such peace since the earliest beginning, and though she knows it must end at some point… until that day, she will explore these creations she once spurned, alongside the sibling she thought she would only see in the last of all battles, across the last of all battlefields. 

_There is much confusion,_ Michael informs her. _Raphael spends much of their time soothing the lower Choirs._

Deanna tilts her face towards the sky, eyes closed, and Samael asks her, _May I?_ Upon Deanna’s acceptance, Samael opens their shared eyes to stare at the sun. Deanna murmurs, “It’s gorgeous.” After a few moments, Samael blinks their eyes closed, returning control to her vessel. 

_I fear,_ Michael admits, _that those who desired the ushering in of Paradise will attempt to seize control._

_The four of us won’t allow that, _Samael says, almost dryly. _I find that I like this world, Michael. I will keep it.___

__Michael laughs. _A strong point,_ she agrees. _Now, Millie has mentioned something called a ‘hot dog’ that she would like us to find for lunch._ _ _

__When Samael queries Deanna, she snickers. “Introducing angels to hot dogs?” she asks her fellow mortal. “You’re braver than I am.”_ _

__Millie shrugs. “I’ve been craving a hot dog since—well, since I fell down the stairs, I suppose.” As she shakes out her hair, walking up the shore, she adds, “Aren’t you the least bit curious what condiments our angels will prefer?”_ _

__Laughing, Deanna follows her from the waves. “I am now.”_ _

__…_ _

__It is only after a lengthy lecture about the necessity of holding one’s tongue in the presence of beings of equal power, and time enough for Atropos to cool her annoyance, that Klotho _reaches_ toward Michael’s grace. For the moment they touch, she sends a question; Michael _reaches_ back with an answer. _ _

__Klotho glances once more at Lachesis, in a white shift dress and dark purple robe similar to their garments when they were worshipped as gods, and Atropos, in a black pencil skirt and lavender blouse, and she sighs. Lachesis seems resigned and Atropos fierce. Truly, she knows her sisters will do her proud, but that this discussion must happen at all—_ _

__She sighs once more, smooths the hem of her pale grey blouse beneath her sensible mauve jacket, checks that her black slacks hang out of her boots, and nods. “Follow me,” she says, summoning a path to the diner where two archangels are pretending to be mortals._ _

__._ _

__“Please join us,” Michael says through the vessel’s mouth, gesturing with the mortal’s arm to three chairs that materialize on the other side of the suddenly-larger table from where the angels sit. They are side-by-side, in vessels that successfully obscure their might._ _

__“Thank you,” Klotho replies. With her gaze, she directs Atropos and Lachesis so that she has the middle chair, the easier to protect them both, should it be needed._ _

__“Hungry?” Samael asks._ _

__“No, thank you,” Lachesis says, her most pleasant smile on her face. “We had lunch before traveling here.”_ _

__Samael nods, glancing at Michael. Michael assesses Klotho and she assesses Michael right back. Whatever Samael sees (on the vessel’s face? or, with an angel’s gaze, Michael’s true form?), it proves calming for Samael returns to eating._ _

__Which is bewildering. Klotho remembers the War, remembers Lucifer. Lachesis was yet young and Atropos younger still, but Klotho had been born old. Sheltered by her father, she witnessed atrocity after atrocity, as angels battled angels across existence, and the Creator did not stir to aid either side. Lucifer had been terrible, in the oldest sense of the word, destructive and voracious, and Klotho had trembled._ _

___Do not fear, daughter,_ Death had told her. _Watch_. _ _

__Klotho watched angels die. What is there to fear when something can die?_ _

___Remember,_ Death told her._ _

__The Star of Morning sits across from Klotho at a rickety table, dipping fried potatoes into mashed tomatoes, and there is seemingly nothing of that terrible force contained within the fragile mortal shell, a slight blonde, pale woman of middling age as mortals go._ _

__“Moirai,” Michael says. “Why have you sought us out?”_ _

__Atropos straightens in her chair, chin jutting out. Before she speaks, Klotho says, “I saw the Strands meant to be Woven, and I watched as the Strands changed.” She pauses but the angels remain silent. “Though I am pleased at this difference, I should like to know why and how this came to be.”_ _

__It is not a request. Death’s words are tightly kept, where none could suss them out, and though Klotho can _see_ what happens, she is rarely privy to the reason or the method. Never before has something reWoven a Strand. Klotho herself has, twice, and only at a plea from her sister and an order from her father. Nothing else should have the ability, or the power. _ _

__“Our father,” Michael says, a beatific smile on the vessel’s face._ _

__When nothing else seems forthcoming, Klotho asks, icily polite, “Your father what?”_ _

__…_ _

__Atropos’ glare is fierce, Lachesis’ stare placid, and Klotho’s tightly-reined annoyance obvious._ _

__“Our father,” Michael continues calmly, “reWove the Strands in order to return a mortal to a pivotal moment, so that the mortal could begin a better way.”_ _

__If Klotho weren’t such a professional, Michael knows she’d reach across the table and attempt to strangle an archangel. “Yes, I saw all that on my own,” Klotho says after a moment. Samael’s amusement nearly causes Michael to smirk._ _

__It is unfair, to tease the Moirai this way, and so Michael starts over. “Moirai,” she says, “I know only what the mortal told me. He came from a horrific time and Father offered him a chance. Why?” Michael shrugs. “That, I do not know.”_ _

__“Do you know what was horrific about it?” Lachesis asks._ _

__“I do not,” Michael admits. Should she share what Sam Winchester told her? The Moirai surely already know. “The mortal informed me that he had stopped Heaven’s battle with Hell by tossing Samael, himself, his brother, and I into the Cage in Hell.”_ _

__None of the three react, proving Michael’s supposition. “Again, Klotho,” Michael says. “Why have you sought us out?”_ _

__Samael’s patience is not infinite, and to be questioned so by what she still mostly believes to be lesser beings (and which Michael, too, still mostly believes to be lesser beings, for all that she knows Klotho is one of very few who could provide a true fight)…_ _

__Klotho meets Michael’s gaze and a query brushes against her grace. _We should speak alone,_ Klotho murmurs. _ _

__Atropos is fuming; Michael knows that whatever she wanted from this discussion (confrontation?), she has not experienced it. Lachesis is unreadable without utilizing grace, a true affront to use in this situation. But Klotho, Klotho has a concern she will not mention in front of her siblings or Michael’s._ _

__“The mortal,” Klotho says, a truth and misdirection all at once. “He is hidden, even from my sight.”_ _

__Samael’s amusement grows. Atropos’ glare sharpens._ _

__Michael responds, “Would you like his number?”_ _


	3. Chapter 3

“Thank you,” Klotho says when Michael appears beside her on the floor of the Marinas Trench. Michael’s grace lights up the deep, so Klotho gazes in wonder at what is revealed.

 _I haven’t long before Samael wonders why I left my vessel behind,_ Michael says. 

Klotho does not look at Michael. To no one else would she speak of this, but Michael, as the eldest, as the Commander of Heaven—“Had Sam Winchester not traveled through the Strands, Leviathan would escape Purgatory.” 

Michael’s surprise buffets her, their grace brightening before Michael recovers control. 

She continues, “All of the archangels were weakened so much as to be the least of angels or killed. Death, too, died, and the Darkness released.” She turns to watch as one of the magnificent creatures who dwell in the Trench slowly swims by. “Though the Darkness and the Creator were reconciled, the Strands that led to that point were…” Klotho pauses before deciding, “Horrific is the correct word.” 

_That is why Father sent Sam Winchester through time,_ Michael says. _Samael, Heaven—all is well._

Scoffing slightly, Klotho glances at them. “Tell me, Michael, what would it take to weaken the lock imprisoning the Darkness?” 

Michael grabs Klotho, hard enough to hurt, but she does not wince nor shy away from all of Michael’s eyes. “As you said, Michael,” she tells them, “Samael is not the Lucifer I Wove in the Strands. We are on a better way.” 

Releasing her, Michael backs away. Klotho maintains silence, allowing Michael to think over all that has been reWoven. Finally, Michael murmurs, _I shall speak with Samael about the Mark._ They pause, gazing towards the abyss of the Trench. _And to Raphael and Gabriel._

And they are gone, leaving Klotho alone, to ponder if she should discuss this utterly mad idea with her sisters. 

…

They’re on the way to a hunt in Jacksonville when Sam’s phone rings with unknown number. Michael had sent him a warning, a quick, _gave your number to the eldest Fate_ note, a couple days ago. Sam had wanted to know why but Michael was cagey, and then Dean decided to get involved and do his big brother thing, pissed off because Michael was just going around giving people a direct line to Sam. Sam didn’t even bother trying to head him off because Dean hadn’t had a good rant in couple months.

And now, the eldest Fate is calling. Great. 

Dean looks over with a raised eyebrow, so Sam answers and puts it on speaker. “Yeah?” 

“Sam Winchester,” a woman’s voice says, low and cool. “I would like to speak with you, face-to-face, but I cannot locate you.” 

“Yeah, I got that from Michael,” Sam replies. “And why does Klotho want to chat?” 

“I know the Strands you have undone,” Klotho says. “We need to discuss certain… details.” 

“And that means what, exactly?” Dean demands, jerking the wheel to jump across two lanes for the first exit off the highway. Milly grumbles in the backseat and Daisy shoves her head over the back of Sam’s seat.

“Sorry, girls,” Dean mutters while Klotho says, “Dean Winchester,” sounding amused. “Of course, you will be involved in the discussion. The two of you—you are intimately connected to the Strands, after all.” 

Sam rolls his eyes. “It’s been undone, so what does it matter?” 

“From what I saw, I know that you know better,” Klotho says. “And what I saw…” 

Dean pulls off the road, puts the car in park, and glares at the phone. “Well, don’t leave us in suspense, weaver.” 

“Face-to-face, Sam Winchester,” Klotho repeats. “You choose the time, the place. Then call or text this number and I will be there.” 

They share a glance. Dean obviously doesn’t want to meet but Sam’s curiosity is piqued. “We’ll think about it,” he says, ending the call. Daisy pulls back, whuffling softly. 

“Sam,” Dean begins. 

“Dean,” Sam interrupts. “D’you want me to have a chat with Michael over angel radio or on speaker?” 

Dean doesn’t even deign to answer, so Sam snickers and hits Millie’s speed dial. 

“Sam!” Millie answers cheerfully. “I suppose you want to talk with Michael.” A pause and then Michael says, “Hello, Sam, Dean.” 

“Michael, hey!” Dean says, with fake cheer. “So, that chick you gave Sam’s number, she just called. What’s that about, huh?”

Michael laughs softly. “I assure you, Dean, what Klotho wishes to discuss with you is important. And that, as things stand now, she presents no danger to either of you.” 

Dean shakes his head, throwing himself dramatically back against the seat. “Look, can’t we just keep on like we have been?” he asks. “It’s been good, huntin’ and goin’ home, no crises or anything, just us and the girls.” 

It’s been good, far better than Sam had imagined after Lucifer’s release from the Cage, but even with all four archangels on board with the no-Apocalypse gameplan, he’s been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Finally, it has. 

“Ask Millie about the mythology on the Fates,” Sam tells Michael. “How accurate is it?” 

Dean drums his fingers on the steering wheel and hums the Jeopardy tune while they wait; after about a minute, Michael says, “Not accurate at all, actually.” 

“What a surprise,” Dean snarks. “So, as our only source of intel on these sisters, are they a threat to us?” 

“As I said,” Michael responds, tone patient, “none of the Moirai will threaten you without first being threatened. They are neutral, Death’s first and greatest children, and act only upon and with the Strands.” 

Before Dean can make a sarcastic comment, Sam says, “Okay. We’ll think about talkin’ with Klotho. Also, Michael,” he adds, “don’t give out my number anymore.” 

“Of course, Sam,” Michael is saying as Sam ends the call. 

“No,” Dean announces. “Nope, not happenin’, not a chance.” 

“Dean,” Sam says. 

“No,” Dean repeats. “We got a good thing goin’, and the angels can handle shit now.” 

“Dean,” Sam says again. 

Dean turns the key in the ignition. “We have a hunt to finish. We can worry about other shit after it’s done.” 

“Okay, Dean,” Sam agrees, smiling. 

… 

They deal with the skinwalker pack, seven that panic and scatter the moment they scent the girls; even though it isn’t a competition, Dean gets two, Sam gets one, and Milly and Daisy run down and eat the rest. Sam waits until they’re almost back to the cabin to say, “Dean, I don’t know what’s going to happen anymore. I’ve changed too much.” 

“Sammy,” Dean says, pulling up beside the cabin. He’s trained the girls to wait to be let out instead of smoking through Baby, so he opens the back door; they take off into the trees, yipping at each other. Sam, the giant numbskull, is leaning against the car, hands clasped and resting on the roof. 

“I really believe I need to talk to Klotho,” Sam says, eyes big and sincere. “There’s this… pit in my stomach, and it’s been, this _feeling_ that something’s building somewhere, it’s been growing these past couple weeks.” 

Dean puts his hands in his jacket pockets, rocks back on his heels. “I noticed you’ve been a little jumpy recently.” In fact, if Sam hadn’t started acting like he was gonna open up about it sometime in the very near future, Dean had planned on subtly badgering him in the next day or two. 

Ain’t it funny when ancient Greek gods and annoying archangels get your baby brother to admit what he’s hiding. 

“I’ve been wracking my brain, trying to figure out what it could be,” Sam says now. “The Strands she mentioned, that sounds familiar, but it’s like the echo of an impression, something I know from the Grace. Not like it’s actually mine.” He hunches down, trying to make himself smaller so that he can gaze up at Dean through bangs he doesn’t have, like he’s seven years old and being totally convincing that he did not spill that bowl of Lucky Charms on Dean’s comic book, no it definitely wasn’t him. “I didn’t think—” He pauses, lets out a breath. “Dean. What would’ve happened if that, that whatever it was, God or whatever, hadn’t sent me back?” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Dean says. “You did come back. The ninja turtle’s the boss upstairs, our grandmas are hosting angels down here, Loki’s palling around with the possible Anti-Christ, we haven’t seen a demon in months, and none of it is our responsibility!” He only realizes he’s shouting when he has to catch his breath. 

The girls come tearing back, around the car and up the porch, where they both stop on a dime at the door and sit on their haunches, all prim and proper. Dean has to smile at their dramatic sass (and wonder, again, just how damn smart _are_ they?) 

Sam doesn’t even say anything. He straightens up and puts the puppy eyes away, but he’s still looking at Dean all patiently. 

“I just…” Dean sighs, letting his head drop. “If there’s something worse than the angels out there, we have to know.” He pushes off the car. “C’mon, let’s get inside. There’s stuff for hamburgers in the freezer.” 

.

Sam’s sprawled in the library when Dean drops onto the floor by where Milly’s sacked out. She wakes up enough to stretch across his lap and Dean begins slowly rubbing at her ears. 

“Dinner’s ready,” Dean says. He feels Sam’s attention but doesn’t look up from Milly. “Think the wards against angels’ll work on a Fate?” 

“Probably not,” Sam admits. 

“Yeah, I figured,” Dean mutters. 

Sam plants his feet on the floor and stands, stretching his arms. “C’mon, let’s eat. We should decide where we’ll meet Klotho.” 

Dean pats Milly’s shoulder; she whines but rolls off his legs, letting him rise. “I wanna know about this bad feelin’ of yours,” Dean tells Sam firmly, making sure to catch Sam’s gaze. “Thought we didn’t hide things anymore.” 

“Yeah,” Sam murmurs. “Okay.” He follows Dean to the kitchen, builds his burger, nearly trips over Daisy on his way to the table, and waits until Dean has served himself and taken his seat before beginning.


End file.
